Meanwhile, back in Stilwater
by Deckenpuppel
Summary: With the most prominent members of the 3rd Street Saints causing havoc in the city of Steelport, things have grown quiet around the gang's hometown. But even as the Saints pit themselves against the might of the Syndicate, old and new enemies rise in the shadows, seeking to make use of the opportunity and to wrestle control over Stilwater away from its rightful rulers.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_It had been meant to be a quiet evening for the citizens of Stilwater: The opening dedication of the Hughes Memorial Bridge, together with the laying to rest of a criminal legend, had promised to grant the city a brief respite, a night without gunfire or murder for once. Surely, so the people had hoped, the cops, politicians and local street gangs would silently agree to a ceasefire in order to commemorate the lives of two giants who had helped shaping the city into what it was now. In a way, they were right, but at the same time they turned out to be horribly, horribly wrong._

* * *

><p>The anchor van came to a halt next to the waterfront with the murderous screech of straining breaks. Its doors flew wide open even before that, and a dark-haired woman jumped unto the nightly sidewalk. Behind her, the rundown apartment complexes of the projects rose into the air like the rotten teeth of a dead giant, seemingly deserted, with only the occasional light flickering behind one of the windows. She ignored them, her eyes set on a different prize. She shouted some orders back over her shoulders even as she checked the integrity of her hair, puffing it up and back into shape with hurried and yet experienced touches. The microphone never left her hand. An explosion tore through the night, distant across the water where the illuminated skyline of northern Stilwater stood out against the black of the night. There was gunfire too, not just beyond the water, but much closer, rattling in a discordant beat that mingled with the high-pitched song of the police sirens all around. The whole city had gone mad, it seemed, but if the woman in her classy blue business attire was in any way concerned by this, she gave no sign of it. If anything, she looked excited.<p>

"Come on, come on, come on!" she spluttered, her voice sporting a distinct nasal quality. "We are missing the best part. STEVE! I swear to God, if you screw this up I am going to - "

"I goddit, I goddit."

The cameraman joined her clumsily on the sidewalk, wrestling with the last few pieces of rebellious equipment and hoisting his heavy camera to his shoulders. Immediately, his partner rushed off to the edge of the waterside, screaming at him to hurry. Despite her wearing high-heels, he had hard time keeping up. Right at the edge, his partner stopped and whirled around, her seasoned eyes instinctively checking for any signs of unfavourable light. She found none, and her hand clenched tightly around the microphone.

"Tell them we are in position!" she shouted back to the rest of her crew still inside the van. The studio didn't waste any time. They were on within the minute.

"And 3… 2… 1… "

As the reporter raised the microphone to her lips, she underwent a remarkable change. Like a true professional, all traces of her excitement fell of her, and her face settled into mask of concentration and focus. Just for the dramatic effect, she sprinkled a little fear and terror into her eyes, something her viewers could relate to, and that would lent her words an even greater weight. The broadcast went life, and on tv screens all over town, what the people saw was a genuinely concerned woman, risking her life for the public good.

"I am standing here at the northern edge of Sunnyvale Gardens, the very heart, some might say, of the tragic events that started earlier this evening, when a yet unidentified group of terrorists blew up the Hughes Memorial Bridge right in the middle of its official inauguration. As you can probably hear, the gunfights that broke out afterwards all over the city still continue, and we can confirm by now that the unknown assailants are not only engaged by the police, but also by the city's own 3rd Street Saints."

She paused, one of her hands rising to the earpiece she was wearing. She nodded.

"That's right, Tom. Ever since the failed heist on Stilwater National Bank and the Saints' recent migration to Steelport, things have been rather quiet around the city. We do not yet know the specific circumstances surrounding these events, but we do know that today the Saints' leaders had planned on coming home, and that in fact a large funeral procession had waited on Hughes Memorial Bridge at the time of the attack. Unconfirmed reports claim that the funeral procession was for no one less than the infamous Saints lieutenant Johnny Gat, who has been mysteriously absent ever since the Saints' incarceration following the Stilwater National Bank heist. What we can say for certain is that the explosion was most likely not an act of terrorism as many people had first feared, but a gruesome and coordinated attack on the Saints who just happened to be on the bridge when it happened. Eye-witnesses from the dedication, as well as what little footage has been recovered by now, both speak of gunfire specifically directed at the Saints breaking out on the bridge prior to the explosion. As for the explosion itself, it appears that it was in fact not a bomb that caused it, but a hailstorm of missiles fired at the bridge from within city limits."

At the studio, the anchorman took over for a moment, silencing the reporter. A fresh staccato of shots rose nearby, but she didn't even blink. She waited patiently and focused, waiting eagerly for the spotlight to be returned to her.

"The police has yet to make a statement as to how such a large quantity of heavy weapons could make it into the city without knowledge of the authorities," she said, answering the studio's next question. "Wardhill Airport with its long-standing history of lax security measures has already been put forth as a possible source, but the sad truth is that we know very little for certain at this point."

Just then, a noise appeared. It was faint at first, nothing more than a soft buzzing, but rapidly increasing in strength. Down the long patch of road running parallel to the waterfront, several pairs of headlights appeared, coming in fast. The buzzing settled into the unmistakable sound of roaring engines accelerating the cars at the top of their performance. The woman paid it no heed, and even the cameraman checked it out with only a cursory glance.

That quickly changed once the vehicles started to open fire.

With a jolt of genuine fear, the reporter broke eye-contact with the camera, her mask of professionalism crumbling before the viewer's eye as she ducked instinctively and turned towards the rapidly approaching cars. Their shapes were much clearer by now, and illuminated by muzzle flashes and the occasional street light, blotches of green, purple and orange paint flashed up. A military style SUV came first, sporting a great green star painted on top of its roof. It was easily the biggest of the the three cars, and the most bulkiest, and thus had a hard time staying ahead of its pursuers. To compensate, the Suv swayed frantically between the lanes, daring the smaller vehicles to try and make a pass, while its occupants fired out of the windows and through its busted rearshield like there was no tomorrow, filling the streets behind them with a deadly hail of bullets. A purple Infuego was hard on its heels, matching any manoeuvre with one of its own despite a windshield that had splintered into a murky mess of cobwebbed fractures, and returning fire with assault rifles and smgs. By contrast, the orange bootlegger that followed them seemed barely invested in the car chase. The iconic brick that was the American muscle car easily kept up with the quarrelling spitfires, always staying partially hidden behind the smooth form of the Infuego and thus avoiding a good deal of the punishment, but the lonely driver vaguely visible behind the wheel made no attempts to reduce the distance still separating him from the others, nor was he firing at either of the possible targets.

It mattered little to the camera crew.

"Dear God. They are coming right at us!" the woman cried. "Quick, inside the van!"

She did not need to tell Steve twice. Together, the two of them raced back towards their own vehicle, urged on by the sounds of stray bullets smashing into nearby walls and windows, way too close for comfort. Again, the reporter left Steve behind her, and literally launched herself into the safety of the vehicle, while he merely climbed in as fast as he was able with the big camera which to drop had apparently not crossed his mind. With a nervous yelp the doors were pulled shut behind him, and the violent din raging outside turned dull and less threatening. The illusion lasted only for a few seconds. Then, the first bullets began to punch into the van's body, and the whole team screamed in unison, diving for the ground. The bursts drummed against the back door, leaving a multitude of small dents, before the material gave way under the onslaught. The sound was deafening. Monitors were ripped apart and exploded into millions of pieces that showered down upon the hapless crew, and electric circuits were disrupted and fried themselves with violent short snaps. All the while, the people inside whimpered and screamed, but there was no mercy to be had.

As suddenly as the nightmare began, it also ended. The roaring of the cars reached their pinnacle in a high-pitched humming as they sped by, underlining the continuous fire for a split-second. Then, the noise was gone, and together with it, the sounds of mayhem and destruction slowly faded into the distance, as the chase carried hunter and prey further along the waterfront, straight towards Saints Row.

The reporter was the first person back on her feet, brushing off her clothes as she looked around the ruined interior of the anchor van, her face aghast. "Look at this mess," she stated, her voice still a little shaky. "It's all ruined."

Her voice trailed off, as if she was about to give in to despair and hopelessness, but she bounced back, and anger found its way into her features. ''These imbeciles! Who do they think they are, shooting at me? Don't they know who I am!? Oh, I'll show them. If I find out who is responsible for this, I'll have their fucking heads!"

She rambled on like this for a while longer, blowing off steam and reasserting her control of the situation, or at least pretending to. The others stood by with empty faces. They knew her well enough to know that this was what she needed right now, and none of them saw a reason to interfere with that. It also gave them something to keep their minds occupied, and so they welcomed the little show, not wanting to deal with the aftermath of what had just happened themselves.

The rambling broke off mid-sentence and without warning. She turned around, staring at the rest of the crew all bug-eyed and excited, her anger all but forgotten in the face of her sudden epiphany. "Are we still on? Is the camera still working?"

"Hmm, what?" replied the cameraman, absent-mindedly.

"Steve!" she cried, moving up to him and slapping him in the face. "Are we still on!?"

The cameraman yelped in pain and surprise, pressing a hand to his burning cheek. "Ouch! That hurts, what the - "

"Are. We. Still. On?" she repeated her question, raising her hand threateningly. "Or do you want another?"

"What, no. I - " Steve stuttered, but then decided it was better to shut up and do as she said. He checked the camera and sorted his way through the damaged controls inside the fan. "We are still shooting," he announced after a while. "But they cut the transmission as we jumped into the van."

His Partner did not like that answer very much. Cursing under her breath, she dusted herself off as best she could. "Alright, out with you. We'll make another quick shot, then we are going after them."

"We are doing what!?" Steve asked, but one look into her eyes told him that resistance would be futile. Sighing in defeat, he hurried to comply. A minute later, they stood outside, ready to shoot. This time, the reporter had left her hair in disarray on purpose.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, as you just witnessed, the violence of this night is far from being over, and - as you just witnessed - even innocent bystanders such as me and my colleagues are not safe from harm. Rest assured, although we are all a little shaken up, we will not give up in our quest to keep you, the honest people of Stilwater, informed about the precarious events that seize our fair city this evening. You are watching Channel 6 News, and this is Jane Valderrama, in pursuit!"


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>uke was pissed. The evening had turned out nothing like he had expected. He glanced at the clock. 23.54; way passed the point he had intended to have drunk himself into oblivion. Instead, he was behind the wheel of his Bootlegger, chasing after some out-of-town nut-heads who had crashed Johnny's remembrance. Worst of all, he was still sober. Somebody was bound to pay for that, and right now the jokers in the SUV in front of him were the prime candidates for that role.

So far, he had stayed out of the fight. Sticks and his crew were clearly out for blood, chasing after the SUV with the single-minded devotion of a rabid hunting dog and putting their Infuego through all kinds of reckless maneuvers in their attempts to close in for the kill. In such a state of mind, they the crew was probably as dangerous to Duke and themselves as they were to their actual target. So Duke kept his distance. Unlike Sticks, he would not let his emotions get the better of him.

Car-chases were not like races. The issue was not being faster than your enemy, rather than being just fast enough to keep the prey in sight and under pressure until it made the fatal mistake that was bound to happen sooner or later. _Let Sticks have his little hounding session_, Duke thought. Maybe, he would get lucky, and if not, chances were Sticks would tire the other driver out enough for Duke to finish him off easy. All he had to do was to be patient.

The three cars came out of the Rebadeaux tunnel roaring like demons rising from the underworld. They sped up the short ramp that reconnected the tunnel with the street without any noticeable decline in speed, lifting off and actually flying for a moment as they surged over the edge. Aside from them, the streets were deserted, cleared hours ago by the outbreak of violence and gunfire. Police sirens still could be heard nearby, but if the SRPD was trying to catch up with them, it had not managed so far.

With the tunnel behind them, the chase left the red-light district of Rebadeaux and moved into Harrowgate, trading in the old, sturdy houses of the entertainment industry with their blinking and glittering neon boards for the high-end retail constructions of prosperous designer shops and aspiring enterprises, overshadowed by the lithe glass and steel blade that was the Phillips Building. The buildings were not the only thing that changed. The roads did too. The long and spacious straight line that had run along-side the waterfront narrowed and wound into a series of curves that directed traffic around the buildings and storefronts, making the vehicles' high speeds impossible to maintain. The Saints were well aware of this; it was their hometown, after all, but the gangers inside the SUV were not. Tires screeched and howled as the breaks fought desperately to decelerate the SUV's bulky frame, but as it began to nestle into the curve, it still hovered on the verge of being toppled by its own momentum for several moments. Ironically, the SUV would have toppled, had it not been for the pursuing Infuego who took the curve as an opportunity to ram the bigger vehicle, and it was just this violent nudge that diverted enough of the SUV's kinetic energy to keep it on its tires. Duke could only shake his head at so much stupidity.

As it turned out, It was the last mistake Sticks ever made.

Even as the SUV's driver stepped onto the gas, the other gangers sent another burst at the pursuing Infuego. At short range, one of the bullets finally hit its mark, punching through what remained of the windshield and burying itself in Sticks's forehead. Bereft of a driver, the Infuego drifted off the road and smashed right into a storefront, shattering glass and scattering merchandise and boxes all around before grinding to a halt.

Duke stared after the vehicle in shock, the leather of his fingerless gloves clenching tightly around the steering wheel. But he did not slow down, and within a heartbeat, his Bootlegger carried him off and hid the wreckage behind the next corner. He had seen no movement inside the Infuego and that troubled him, even though he was well aware of just how brief his glance had been and that the chances were just as high that Sticks's crew was just stunned rather than dead. Part of him would have liked nothing better than to abandon the chase and check upon his fellows, but he also knew that he wouldn't. The stakes had just been raised, and there was no way he was going to let those fuckers get away with it. He owed the others that much. To ease his conscience, he gave one of his contacts at the hospital a call, making sure that someone would come to check on the others. It did little in terms of making him feel better, but it was still better than nothing. He released his tight grip on the wheel, trying to focus on the task at hand. He managed only for a moment, then he erupted in a hoarse curse and pummeled the wheel like it was a punching bag. That **did** help, and it left Duke eager and hungry for more.

Racing after the SUV, it became obvious rather quickly that the gangers were hopelessly lost. Their route was random, with twists and turns in all the wrong places and even leading them around in circles as they tried to get away from their pursuer,spitting bullets at him every step of the way. It did them little good against Duke's car. With Wardhill airport sealed off, and after ingeniously having blown off the new bridge themselves, it looked like the gangers had no alternative exit strategy. _Not to worry_, Duke promised them in his mind. _I_'_ve got one for you. _

He stuck to his plan. Rather than forcing a premature decision, he increased and maintained the pressure, forcing the SUV to maintain a high speed and threatening it in each and every one of its maneuvers. The passengers still fired at him, but having exhausted their bigger guns, had switched to pistols, and unlike Sticks's Infuego, their bullets just bounced off the orange-lacquered Bootlegger. Duke had not dubbed it "The Brick" for nothing.

The two vehicles were drifting around another curve, when Duke's phone suddenly rang in his pocket. Never talking his eyes off the road, Duke produced the irritating device and pressed it to his ear without looking at the display.

"I'm kind of busy," he blurted. "Can this wait?"

"Awww Duke, don't be like that," purred a lascivious voice on the other end. "I am lonely, and thought you'd maybe like to party."

It was a voice straight out of every man's fantasy; sweet and husky and full of dark promises, the kind of Siren's song capable of reducing a man's brain to a useless pile of jelly from one moment to the next. Knowing that the woman had looks to match that voice certainly didn't help. Luckily for him, being in a car chase did, and hearing aggravated cries and gunfire on the other end of the line did too.

"Felicia, how nice of you to think of me. I am assuming we are not talking the kind of party involving drinks and ending in sharing one's bed with pleasant company?"

"No, darling," replied Felicia with a heart-wrenching chuckle. "The actual fun kind, where people end up in coffins. Where are you?"

"Oh, you know; somewhere around the Row, making sure our guests do not get lost."

"The Row?" she asked, and Duke just knew that she was cocking her eyebrow in that moment. "You are not losing your touch, are you Duke?"

Duke grunted. "Hardly. Sticks was in front of me playing hardass." He paused, staring blankly at the SUV before him. "I don't think he made it."

"Really? Anyways, it is actually perfect you're already so close. Care to exchange favors?"

Duke tsked silently, shaking his head. He thought there might have been a tiny lapse in excitement, an infinitesimal pause of empathy giving testimony of at least traces of humanity left in Felicia. But just as easily, it could have been wishful thinking on his part. He sighed and put on a smile. "You know I can never stay away from you for long, beautiful. What do you have in mind?"

"I'm at the Supremacy Condos, near the hospital. A couple of those green-clad bastards tried to get to the pier here, but my girls and the guys from the church managed to cut them off. Now they are holed up in the underground garage."

Duke was about to answer, ignoring the bullets still raining in on him, when the SUV made a sudden and unexpected turn; one would that Duke could not hope to emulate with just one hand on the wheel. Swearing, he pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, and pulled on the wheel as hard as he could. The Bootlegger screamed and bucked as if in pain, clawing its front tires into the tarmac as its back swung around violently. For a second, even Duke himself did not think he could make it, but the Brick had never let him down before, and was not about to start now. A gasp was wrestled from his lungs when the forces pressing him into the driver's door released him, causing him to bounce back in his seat. The backlash punched the phone from his grasp. Duke swore yet again, and began to search blindly for the device as he continued the chase through Harrowgate. Felicia continued to talk on her end, but Duke was merely guessing rather than actually hearing what she was saying.

"Hang on a sec!" he cried, groaning as he stretched his arm in search of the device. It took a couple of more moments, but then Duke's fingers closed in around the sleek frame, and hauled it back to his ear. "Alright, I'm back."

"What happened?" She sounded almost annoyed, and that in turn aggravated Duke.

"In case you've forgotten, I'm kind of in the middle of something. So you have a couple of stragglers boxed in. What has that to do with me?"

"Come on, Duke. Don't be like that. We can help each other. Just bring your business here, and I'll make sure to prepare a warm welcome. And afterwards, you'll help me clear out the condos."

Duke smirked. "What's the matter, Fel? Scared of going in alone? Maybe its you who is losing your touch."

The change in Felicia's voice was remarkable, and this time Duke was certain that there was a pause before she she did, all traces of warmth or purring were gone, and her voice had dropped to a low, threatening growl.

"I'll rip those bastards' heads off all by myself if I have to!" she raged. "I'd simply prefer to do so without losing more people than we already have. Thought you would share the sentiment, but apparently you are busy being a whiny little cunt."

Duke flinched away from her verbal assault. Two thoughts ran through his head simultaneously. _What a bitch_, was the first. Felicia's words struck a chord in him, especially because she was only feeding back to him what he secretly thought about her. He had never told her that, though, and even though he hated her for it, part of him could not help but grudgingly admire the insight and cunning with which she had outmaneuvered him. _Well played, Fel. Well played. _

"Alright, alright. You got me. I'll bring the party to you. See you in a few."

Felicia chuckled, returning instantly to her flirtatious self. She was about to reply something, but Duke clicked her away before any sense of comprehension could set in. She had already won, which was bad enough. There was no way he would give her the opportunity to gloat over it. There were worse things than being a sore loser.

With Felicia being handled - or rather having been handled by her - all that was left was the little detail of actually getting the SUV to the condos. _Ah, well,_ Duke thought, unholstering his gun with a sly grin. _Time to take a more active hand in things. _

Just as the SUV was about to make a left turn, Duke placed his first short. His aim was spot on, and the driver's side mirror all but exploded into a million little pieces, leaving only a crude stump. Duke aimed a couple of more inches to the right and squeezed the trigger a few more times, sending bullets flying around the driver's head. It finally managed to do the job. The SUV jumped aside, away from the deadly fire, but also missing the intended turn. Duke allowed himself yet another smile. "That's right, fellows," he said, fully aware none of them could hear him. "Listen to good old Duke. I promise, It'll all be over soon."

But the SUV's passengers were not exactly inclined to follow Duke's subtle nudges without any resistance whatsoever. They might not have been the brightest fish in the pond - they had deliberately chose to fuck with the Saints, after all - but they were no complete idiots either. They knew something was going on, and so they tried to resist with all they had.

Duke, however, was being very persuasive, and insisted on showing the out-out-town guests a better path. When bullets didn't help, he used the Brick's reinforced frame to do the trick, ramming the black-green SUV from behind or cutting in beside it and denying it its path. The ganger behind the wheel struggled hard against Duke's efforts and tried to use his superior mass to push through the obstacle that was the Bootlegger, but between the Brick's greater mobility and its improved armoring, Duke was not afraid to go toe to toe with the bigger vehicle. They clashed repeatedly. More often than not, Duke came out on top.

Then, suddenly, they were there; speeding around the last corner towards St. Mathew's with screeching wheels. The Saints were already waiting for them. Three purple cars had been lined up, back to back, blocking the road as well as the sidewalk. Felicia's people were bunched up behind the cars, weapons at the ready, like an urban firing squad. The only exception was Felicia herself. The blond stood demonstratively in front of the roadblock, right in the middle of the street, her hair swaying slightly in the soft breeze, her voluptuous form wrapped in dark leathers and bits of purple that looked part biker and part stripper. One of her hands rested on her bare waist, the other hoisted her assault rifle casually into the air. Her stance tilted slightly to the right, showing off her figure as it was indirectly illuminated by the cars' headlights behind her. Duke smiled and shook his head, even as he hit the breaks. Felicia had set herself a nice little stage to pose upon. Now it was time for him to lean back and enjoy the show. He saluted the SUV with two fingers.

"See ya, fellows…"

The Saints opened fire simultaneously. The rattling and barking was deafening, cutting through the air and blotting out all other sound. Bullets from more than a dozen automatic weapons tore into the SUV, eating away at its substance like hyper-charged insects ravaging a decomposing corpse, turning in within a few scant moments into nothing more than a ruined, lifeless husk. When the gunfire ceased, the car's remains limped on for a few meters with the last hollow death rattles of the engine, before coming to a halt just inches away from Felicia.

The Saint blew a dislodged strand of her hair from her face and flashed a wolfish smile. Then she made her way to the passenger's side, stepping over the bloody and dripping remains of an arm that hung limply out of the door, and cast a glance inside. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she moved passed the SUV, back into Duke's view, striking her initial pose once more, before blowing a kiss into his direction.

Duke could not help but shake his head. _Dear God_, he throught. _I so do not get that woman_.

* * *

><p><strong>A<strong>s parts of the crew set out to strip the enemy corpses of their guns and valuables, Duke stepped out of his car and walked over to Felicia. He was a tall man in his late twenties, with an angular face and a strong chin. His long brown hair was tamed by a simple ponytail, and a stubbly beard sprouted on his tanned skin, providing him with a rugged kind of handsomeness. His attire consisted of a curious combination of various styles. The brown jeans and worker's boots were plain and inconspicuous, the white short-sleeved disco-shirt bright and flashy, and the cowboy hat resting upon his crown kind of old-school, harmonizing only with the gun- and eagle-themed tattoos that he sported on his chest and forearms. He walked over to Felicia with a certain, pretentious bounce to his steps, tugged playfully into the rim of his hat, and feinted a slight bow, before pointing at the mess around them.

"You really should call Ultor Security, you know; ask them to seal off the roads and run some interference. With the precinct nearby, the cops won't ignore this for too long."

Felicia chuckled smugly. "Already taken care of. They should be deploying as we speak."

"Then I guess I take it all back. You haven't lost your touch at all. I bet those poor fellows were shitting their pants as they pulled up to you."

"They should have thought about that before hitting our town."

"No argument there," said Duke, looking back at the lifeless bodies. "They got what was coming to them. Any idea whose crew it is?"

Felicia shrugged. "Look like clowns to me. Don't really care. There will be enough time to find out once they are all dead."

Duke walked over to one of the gangers and crouched down beside him, turning him over. Lifeless eyes stared back at him from within a broad and beardless face, partly hidden beneath a colorful mask. But unlike what Felicia had said, the masks did not resemble a clown. It looked more like the mask of a professional wrestler. Duke would know. He was a huge fan. But he had never heard of a crew with that kind of theme.

Getting up, he left the boys to their scavenging and joined Felicia at the entrance to the underground garage. More Saints still stood guard there, pointing their rifles at the massive hole that gaped within the entrance gate. Duke chuckled and lit himself a cigarette.

"Looks like somebody was in a hurry," he remarked dryly and blew his first load of smoke into the air. "So what's the situation?"

"Like I said; we have them boxed in. On both sides. A couple of the boys and girls are blocking the stairs and elevators together with condo security, and as you can see we have locked down the front."

Duke nodded. "How many?"

"There were three cars, so probably about eight to twelve people. No more than fifteen, in any case."

"Alright, so what's the problem?"

Felicia turned to him, cocking her eyebrow. It was even better in person than in Duke's imagination. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Oh, come on, Fel. A dozen guys, boxed in and surrounded, outnumbered and outgunned, and you call me for help? Normally you get pissed when anybody interferes with your killing, and now you want to share? I'm not buying it."

Felicia moved closer to Duke and snatched his smoke straight out of his mouth. "You're so suspicious," she chided, taking a draw. "Maybe I just wanted to see you."

"That's not a 'no' and you know it. Come on, out with it."

"Fine," she pouted. She took a another draw from his smoke, smiled and snipped it away with childlike glee. "You've heard about how the fuckers blew up the bridge?"

Duke glanced after his cigarette and furrowed his brows, putting his hands to his hips. "I do. So?"

Felicia chuckled. "Well, we're not exactly sure they've run out. There might still be an RPG or two waiting for us down there."

Duke's eyes were back on Felicia in an instant. "You've got to be kidding me!"

But Felicia wasn't. "I never kid about explosives, you know that."

"Fuck."

"Do you see now why I could use the help?"

"Sure, but what exactly do you want me to do? It's not like I take to being blown up any better than the next guy."

Felicia shrugged. "You figure it out. We had a deal."

"Bullshit! You tricked me!"

"Maybe. Doesn't change anything, though."

Duke scowled at her. "I hate you."

"No you don't," she replied, chuckling. "Now come on, use your head."

Duke groaned. That was twice in one day that she had tricked him. The worst thing about it was that she was also right. Again. Complaining would not solve their rat problem any faster. He sighed.

"Alright, alright. Let me think. What about security? Don't they have camera surveillance down there?"

"Not anymore, they don't," Felicia said amiably. "Cutting the feeds was the first thing they did."

"Assholes," Duke cursed. Then his eyes lit up in excitement. "How about a ventilation system?"

"Probably. Why?"

Duke didn't answer her. He stormed off, waving her along with an arrogant grin, back towards his car. He moved to the back and opened the trunk. Except for a roll of duct tape, an old bag from brown-beggars and a shovel, it was empty. It was also rather messy, and Felicia was clearly underwhelmed given Duke's excitement.

"Impressive," she remarked dryly, but Duke's good spirits would not be quenched. If anything, his smile only broadened. "Mock all you want, girl. Believe it or not, herein lies the solution to our problem. Did I ever tell you about my time with the Boy Scouts?"

"No, but I believe one of the guys got so fed with your stories that he paid one of the kids from Ultor to look into your wild claims, and it turned out most of it was a load of crap."

The answer took Duke by surprise, and actually drained the wind from his sails, if only for a moment. "Maybe," he admitted eventually. Then he pressed a hidden switch and the bottom of the trunk gave a soft snap. Duke pulled it up, and Felicia's eyes went wide. Duke's smiled once more. "Luckily for you, I still always come prepared."

* * *

><p><strong>D<strong>eep within the underground garage, the remaining Luchadores were waiting for the inevitable end. None of them harbored any illusions about getting out of this mess alive. Clearly, their escape plan had failed, and they knew that nobody was coming for them. Their boss was not exactly of the forgiving type, and he respected strength above all else. If they could not make it on their own, then they probably deserved to die — that was his kind of logic. Natural urban selection. It was a cruel policy, but when you were as strong and feared as Eddie "Killbane" Pryor, you could probably indulge a little cruelty in yourself. No, they would receive no help from that end. They were on their own. All they could do now was to sell their lives as high as possible.

They had arranged their trucks alongside the columns that supported the roof, forming an improvised barricade that would lent them some degree of cover when the Saints finally stormed the place. Two of them had taken up positions further back, keeping an eye on the stairwell and the nearby elevator. Already, one of their own lay dead at the bottom of the staircase, shot during their initial push as they tried to escape into the building. Just another turn of bad luck that of all the buildings in this reeking city, they had ended up in one whose security was deep within the Saints' pockets.

A few minutes ago, there had been some kind of commotion outside, followed by a brief gunfight. Maybe others had been cut off from the airport, maybe the police had showed up, or maybe the Saints had just met some other poor sod they didn't like. Whoever it had been, they had not fought back.

Now it was all quiet outside again. On many levels, that was worse than the gunfire. The tension within the garage was almost tangible. None of the Luchadores so much as uttered a word. Their eyes were pinned to the entrance of their refuge, wide and trembling, and cold sweat was running down their brows. Their hands clenched around their weapons so tight that the white of their knuckles showed beneath the skin.

Long minutes passed without bringing any new developments. The air within the garage was growing staler, and the holed up gangers tired noticeably of their constant vigilance. With their willpower slowly being eroded, some of the Luchadores eventually relaxed a bit, not as a conscious decision but out of sheer necessity. It was exactly in that moment that the Saints made their move. Dull thumping noises of pressurized air sounded repeatedly and a number of metal cylinders came flying through the torn gate and into the garage, bouncing on and scattering into various places and corners. Wherever they came to rest, they snapped open, and began to pump thick plumes of smoke and gas into the air. Soon, the Luchadores were choking and coughing, trying to cover their eyes or rub the burning away. Their previous discipline buckled and collapsed, and chaos broke out in the garage. Some of the Luchadores simply dove for the ground, but tried to keep their aim, determined to power through the agony that was inflicted on them. Others couldn't bear it like that, and sought protection within the cabins of their trucks; but shot up as they were, the shattered windows and punctured frames offered little protection. Two of the gangers lost their heads completely, and made for the exit.

They didn't get far. Just as they disappeared through the torn gate, two shots rang out and they were flung back into the garage. Behind them, two figures stepped through the gate, wafts of smoke dancing around them. The first was a man in a white shirt and a cowboy hat, the second a leather-clad woman with blond hair. Both were wearing gas masks and wielded a pair of pistols. For a moment, the two Saints just stood theatrically at the entrance, surveying the scenery and allowing their arrival to sink into the Luchadores' minds. The featureless faces of their gas masks looked around cold and unblinking, betraying no sign of emotion or pity.

Then they leveled their weapons, and the carnage began.

Duke worked his way to the left. Bullets passed him by left and right as the Luchadores opened fire, but behind his gas mask, he felt strangely far away and disconnected from the danger and violence. Almost casually, He sent his first bullet into the head of a Luchador that had struggled to his feet behind the car-barricade, watching the cloud of blood mushrooming from the back of his head before moving on to the next target. His left-handed gun blossomed, firing at a goon that was shooting from within one of the trucks, but the Luchador ducked out of the way at just the right moment. With a surge of annoyance, Duke turned both his cannons unto the truck and hammered away, turning the vehicle into Swiss cheese. The Luchador did not surface again after that. As a pièce de résistance, he sent his last bullet beneath one of the trucks, the bullet ricocheted off the ground and burying itself within the eye socket of a third attacker. Then Duke pivoted behind a pillar, bullets still flying around him, and set to reloading his weapons.

On the other side, two masked gangers fought themselves to their feet. Leaning heavily against their vehicle and holding their breath, they raised their guns and tried to blink away the watery tears that brimmed from their eyes with frantic fluttering. Both of their heads snapped back violently when two muffled shots tore into them, small clouds of blood spurting from their foreheads. They fell to their backs without a sound. Felicia fired twice more, fist hitting a Luchador who was making a run for the exit in the knee, and hammering the second bullet into his skull even as he fell. A green-clad giant charged at her from behind the trucks, screaming and swinging his rifle like a club. Felicia's Nr4s chirped again and the man collapsed with a gut-shot, writhing on the ground in agony before the Felicia caved in his head with a vicious kick of her high-heeled boots.

A door was opened and slammed shut again, and a moment later one of the trucks' engines was fired up. Roaring almost frantically, the car leapt from its position and towards Felicia in a deadly arc of steel and spinning tires. Felicia leveled her guns at the driver and fired, but missed him by a few inches. Then the truck was upon her. She threw herself aside at the last possible moment, escaping ending up as a bloody pulp by nothing more than a hairsbreadth. In one fluid motion, she rolled to her feet again, pivoting and sending more bullets into the truck's frame, until the truck smashed through the already shattered door of the exit and disappearing out onto the streets. The same moment, angry chains of gunfire sounded outside as the rest of the Saints opened fire on the emerging vehicle. The sounds of shattering glass and punctured metal mixed themselves under the din, and then the roaring of the truck's engine just died away, together with everything else, including its driver.

Back inside, Duke re-emerged from behind his cover. The two Luchadores covering the elevator swung their rifles towards him. The first died with a bullet tearing through his throat, but the second fired before Duke, and fiery pain flamed up where the bullet grazed his neck. Snarling beneath the gas mask, Duke triggered both his weapons at once, and blew the rifleman off his feet. His blood all fired up and screaming for more carnage, Duke swung around, looking for his next victim.

He found none.

The gunfire had stopped, and there was not a sound to be heard. Except one: A wheezing cough led Duke around the shot up trucks of the Luchadores. A single ganger was lying there on his back, his mouth hanging open and lungs heaving with every cough and desperate intake of air. There was not a mark on him, but even through the mask, Duke could see that he was younger and less pumped-up than the other wrestler-wannabies that now lay dead all around him. His weapon lay discarded at his side. When he beheld Duke, the boy's eyes widened in fear and he surged to his knees, begging with his hands even as another violent coughing shook his entire body. Duke stepped close and raised his gun at the kid's head. Tears were streaming down his face, though Duke could not tell whether that was just from the kid was pleading now in between coughs, the voice hoarse and shrill with panic, the hands raised to shield his face from the gun's barrel, as if not seeing his face would somehow throw off Duke's aim, or as if flesh and muscles in between would somehow make a difference. It didn't. The handgun bucked in Duke's hand, and four bloody holes were punched into existence; two in the boy's hands, and two in his head, splattering blood and brain matter all over the floor. The gunshot echoed through the garage, folding in on itself over and over again, until the sound slowly faded into nothingness. In its wake, a deadly quiet settled into the garage. Duke lowered his gun.

He was still staring at what was left of the boy's face when Felicia stepped into his line of sight from around the other side of the trucks. Duke turned towards her, taking in the featureless mask and the empty dark scuttle-eyes, and wondered whether the pretty face beneath it would seem any more human in this moment. Somehow he doubted it. Felicia holstered her guns and crossed her arms, cocking her head to the side as she regarded him. Something about the empty stare freaked him out, sending a chill down his spine and causing his guts to rebel, but he held her gaze, until Felicia finally nodded at the exit and headed off. Duke took another glance at the Luchador's corpse, then he followed her out.

Walking passed the shot up truck, they crested the rampart back to the streets. Duke pulled off his gas mask and let out a long and heavy sigh of relief. He threw the gadget to the nearest Saint in attendance and put his hat back on, spending the extra second or two to readjust it just the way it was supposed to. He told his newly appointed mask-holder to stash it back in his car with the grenade launcher, then scratched his scruffy chin and took another joyous breath.

"God, it's good to breath fresh air again!"

Felicia walked up beside him, and tossed the second gas mask into the kitman's arms. The ganger barely managed to catch it.

"Well, that was fun," cooed Felicia, stretching herself luxuriously in the process. "I told you we would have a good time. Even without RPGs."

Duke's response consisted of an ambiguous grunt. He began to fish for his pack of smokes and strolled further onto the street, taking a fresh look around. Ultor security had set up their roadblocks by now, their flashing sirens lighting up the night with orange and white. They were not the only ones, though. SRPD had arrived as well, and was currently engaged in a series of doubtlessly delighting pissing contests with the guards from Ultor over matters of jurisdiction, corruption, and whatever else usually came up during exchanges like these. For all its bark, the police had precious little bite to back their threats up with. More than half the force received bribes to look the other way anyway, and those greedy bastards had probably cashed in double for allowing their out-of-town guests to take a shot at the Saints. But even the honest cops had little enough going for them. Part of Ultor's deal with the city when they had renovated the Row had been the granting of special police rights within the district to Ultor's private security forces. Officially, it had been meant to relieve the overworked and underpaid officers of the law, but of course of Ultor has had ulterior motives even back then, and ever since the Saints had taken over, these ulterior motives happened to include keeping their friendly neighborhood gangsters out of trouble. Neither of the two parties allowed facts like this to get in the way of some ego-bloated banter, though. Duke waved happily at the cops, chuckling when he saw them bristling with anger as a response. He sighed. Sometimes, it were the little things that brightened the day the most.

Law enforcement was not the only one taking an interest in the shooting. There were a couple of civilians as well. For the most part, they consisted of the evacuated inhabitants of the Supremacy Condos, who were wondering when they would be allowed to return to their homes now that everything had quieted down, but a few foolish thrillseekers had mixed into the throng as well, hungering for a piece of the excitement. Some of them were openly displaying Saints fan-shits, part of the obnoxious groupie-movement that had arisen with the Saints' rise to pop icons. Duke even spotted a few reporters and camera crews that had already picked up on the commotion, trying to bribe or bluff or talk their way past the barricade. One of these teams caught Duke's eye. It was the only one not absorbed in hatching some kind of plot or engaged with either the cops of Ultor guards. Instead, the crews' leader was busy ripping her crew a new one. For what, Duke could not fathom, but that wasn't the reason why Duke stuck with the trio. He did, because for one thing he thought the recognized Jane Valderama doing the ass-ripping — something akin to a local celebrity in her own right — but more importantly because the anchor van that she was ranting in front of was in pretty bad shape; all shot up and at the same time looking vaguely familiar. Duke couldn't really place it though.

He was still thinking about where he might have seen the van when Felicia joined him once more. She was just getting off her phone, and she did not seem pleased.

"That was Tazz," she announced. "Seems like that was it. All the macho-clowns are either dead or gone."

Duke nodded. "What about Shaundi and the others?"

"Wet, but alive. They're back at the Purgatory, screaming bloody murder and planning our retaliation, I'd bet." Her eyes were lit up with excitement. "I am heading there now. You coming?"

"Nah," he answered, shaking his head. "You go ahead. I'm going to stick around for a while and find some watering hole to raise a few glasses in Johnny's memory. You can plan how to wreak vengeance just fine without me, I'm sure."

Felicia seemed a little disappointed, but she shrugged eventually. "Suit yourself, but don't get wasted. After this little stunt, there is no way we get left behind again. this time we are getting in on the action for sure."

Duke chuckled. "Your words in the Boss's ear, Fel. I'll see you tomorrow. Say Hi to the others for me."

Felicia hesitated for a moment, giving him, a curious look, but then she turned on her heels and stormed off to her abomination of an Attrazione that bore an uncanny resemblance to Barbie's dream-car with its rose-colored paintjob. The sports car's engine flared to life with a high-pitched zoom, and then Felicia headed off, through one of the roadblocks where the men from Ultor actually went out of their way to clear a path for her, despite all the protests coming from the SRPD. Duke couldn't help but to chuckle again.

He shook a single cigarette out of his pack, picking it up with two fingers and placing it between his lips. His zippo snapped open, lit it and snapped shut again. Duke took in a lungful of the sweet poisonous smoke and breathed it into the air with relish. He looked up into the night sky, but from within the city limits, especially the ever-lit Row, hardly a star could be seen, and all Duke was left with was a vast expanse of black nothingness.

He could have gone with Felicia; maybe he even should have, but he hadn't. He had not wanted to. He could see the whole scene play out perfectly in his head: As Felicia had said, the Boss would advocate swift and merciless retribution, not just because it was what the streets called for, but also because it was the only way the Boss knew how to react. Pierce would try to be the voice of caution, advocating moderation; to play it smart. And there was Shaundi.

Shaundi would hear none if it. She would not think, she would not relax, take nothing to calm herself down. She would be fury incarnate, an angel crying for blood at the Boss's side. The captains would try to back up their respective leaders, the more sassy of them maybe even going as far as voicing an original thought or two. Yet the outcome would be the same. Johnny's captains, including Felicia, would flock to the Boss and Shaundi, as would Shaundi's own people — those that were there, anyway. Even if Price by some miracle would be able to convince the majority of the crews about the merits of his approach, it still wouldn't change a thing. The Saints were not a democracy. They had their king, and there was just no way in hell the Boss would so much as take a breath before throwing himself into this fight. So why bother?

The worst part was the hyprocritical self-righteousness of it all. Duke understood the anger. He felt that as well, and there was no question that those who were responsible would pay for what they had done. What he couldn't understand was the sense of surprise and outrage that everyone was showing, as if they were somehow the innocent victims in this whole affair. Duke had not known Gat very well, but he doubted this hypocrisy was what Johnny would have wanted. He knew the life. The knew that growing old and falling asleep peacefully in some fluffy white bed was not in the cards for most of them. Hell, Johnny would have probably hated the very thought of it. If anything, Gat had been a warrior, and he had died on the battlefield, surrounded by violence and his enemies. Duke doubted he would have had it any other way. Voicing such a thought, however, would not have been met with understanding or critical reflection, but with only more hate and violence, and while Duke normally did not flinch away from a provocation, not even he was reckless enough to make such a suicidal move. After all, the Saints were the only family he had, even if it meant standing alone in the middle of the night.

He sighed and took another draw from his smoke. Felicia had been wrong about one thing, though. This whole affair was far from being over. He just could feel it. Raising his cigarette before his eyes, he watched, captivated, how it slowly turned into ash.


End file.
